


hospice

by seabass



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-04
Updated: 2017-10-04
Packaged: 2019-01-08 19:44:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12260868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seabass/pseuds/seabass
Summary: Is it pinching skin together to start the stitch, or the thickness of Frank's eyelashes when he looks up and there isn't any pain in his eyes? Is it the fire escape and the frame of the window sill that captures in a square Foggy's oddest problem yet?





	hospice

**Author's Note:**

> can be m/m or gen. just some dialogue scenes with frank and frank.

Frank bleeds on the couch while Foggy grabs an ice pack.  


“You think ice in a baggie is going to help a bullet wound?”  


“I'm not Claire, okay.”  


“Who? Oh, that pretty lady with the scrubs? Yeah, good idea. Call her up. Tell her to bring some thread.”  


“You know what, I'm not going to call Claire. You're going to settle for my ziploc or you're going to leave.”  


“Show me to the door,” Frank gripes and he bleeds.  


Foggy has a mock medic kit in his bathroom. He was inspired by an EMT he dated as an undergrad - who told great, gross war stories over dinner - and by Matt Murdock almost dying on his carpet last Saturday. Frank makes quick work of the zipper and he twines suture thread through the eye of a needle.  


“You're pretty good at that. Did you learn how to stitch on the battlefield overseas?”  


“No, my mother was a tailor.”  


“Are you telling me that the great Frank Castle has a mother? Who birthed him? That he wasn't summoned on a Halloween night by a group of My Chemical Romance teenagers?”  


Frank pauses - fingers deep into his wound, needle between his teeth - to look at him. Foggy smiles, all teeth.  


“It’s not that I don't appreciate all that you're doing-”  


“It's ok. You don't have to ask. I'll shut up.”  


“Thank you.”  


“Anytime, champ.”  


For lack of anything better to do, Foggy reheats leftovers, makes a pot of coffee, and starts a movie. Frank drops a bullet in the coffee table’s decorative glassware. He doesn’t make a noise as he stitches slowly and he still has blood on his hands when he reaches for the set out pizza. Foggy doesn't know whether to offer him a wet wipe or a fork. It's too late now, it would be awkward to ask. Foggy hands him his coffee.  


Bruce Willis celebrates Christmas with bombs and machine guns in the background of the loudest silence Foggy has personally ever been tortured with. Frank leaves crust on the table by his six guns and goes for the last slice.  


“You gonna eat that?” Frank asks politely.  


“No, go for it.” Foggy tries to feel this visit out, “You need a place to lay low while you heal up?”  


Frank finishes the pizza, drops his crusts and messy bandages, and packs up his gun.  


“I still have plenty to clean up tonight.”  


“You can start with all of this.”  


Frank doesn't hear him - god bless god bless god bless- and he swings his big helicopter gun over his firefighter shoulders.  


“Thanks,” he says behind the barrel.He disappears out the window when he could have just as easily used the elevator.  


-  


“I don't know how he got my address,” Foggy tells the bartender. “Only that he could have used this information to kill me long ago.”  


“Get a chain lock,” the bartender tries.  


“He uses the window.”  


“Get a dog”  


“He loves dogs.”  


“Listen, you've been standing there for a while. Are you going to order?”  


“Don't rush me. It's just, it's not like I mind his company. But, he brings trouble.”  


“We’ve got a good happy hour if you want to see a menu.”  


“I'm going to be honest with you, Mike”  


Mike looks down at his nametag.  


“I'm not going to order. My friends are not picking up their phones and I need to talk this over.”  


“Get a dog.”  


“To keep him from breaking in?”  


“To talk to.”  


“I'll take a double shot.”  


“Of?”  


“Literally anything.”  


-  


Frank is mauled by Foggy's savage hound half way through the window.  


Frank asks, “You got a dog?”  


“For protection.”  


“A Corgi?”  


“A frothing, vicious Corgi.”  


“She's really doing a number on my shoelaces.”  


“Her name is Gremlin and she deserves your respect.”  


“And she has it.” Frank scratches a couple times behind her ear. She melts, puddy in his hands, trotting at his feet as he makes his way to the couch.  


“That couch was white when I bought it.”  


“What color is it now?”  


Foggy flips on the overhead lights and his eyes - Frank’s too - take a second to adjust off only moonlight. Gremlin nestles on the couch, into the orange-ish red tint of blood that doesn't wash off.  


“Sorry.”  


Foggy passes him the first aid kit.  


“This injury doesn't look so bad.”  


“Just a little shrapnel.” Frank agrees, twisting his ankle into view. blood gushes from the little wound, spilling onto the carpet in thick, wet clops. Foggy manages to find it in him to lay down a towel.  


“This is exactly why I didn't become a nurse.”  


“But you have such a great bedside manner,” Frank laments, then there’s a twist in his mouth.  


“My dog should have eaten you.”  


Frank rubs his hands sort-of clean on his shirt before he gives Gremlin a warm pet on top of the head.  


“Hey,” Foggy says, “Did you happen to run into Matt out there tonight? He was hurt last night, but still wanted to patrol. I’m kinda worried about him.”  


“I didn't see him.”  


Foggy sighs.  


“But I wasn't looking.”  


“He's hard to miss with those horns, and the red.” Foggy sits on the carpet beside Frank's leg. He fiddles with the remote and considers putting Die Hard back on to fill the void he can't possibly fill with words.  


Frank drops the shrapnel on the table.  


“I should get going.”  


“You probably shouldn't be walking on that.”  


Frank stands and Gremlin lifts her lazy, little head to watch him go.  


“Thanks for the tweezers.”  


“House of Foggy is always open for slightly illegal self-service surgeries.”  


“Love your guard dog.”  


“That very well may be the first emotion you have expressed in front of me that hasn't directly led to a death.”  


“Not yet, anyway.”  


“Ominous, but fair.”  


And Frank is gone.  


-  


There are a couple things about Frank - buried deep, deep inside that killer wasp exterior - that Foggy could kind of see himself liking. if the traits belonged to anyone else.  


Matt complains for an hour and a day that Frank Castle was in his way all night, limping at Matt’s heels and (not so much killing as) permanently maiming the bad guys who got away during Daredevil’s raid.  


“I didn't need any help,” Matt insists.  


“Buddy, I love you, but I'm going to kill you,” Foggy says.  


“It's one little scratch.”  


Claire tugs hard on her pressure gauze and Matt winces with that sad, beaten dog look that anyone who didn't know him would pity.  


“If it’s a little scratch, then why am I here,” She snaps with - dare Foggy say it - fondness. “He saved your life.”  


Good, now Foggy doesn't have to say it.  


“He didn't.”  


-  


Foggy catches Claire halfway out the door. She;s got her bag over her shoulder and Foggy takes it off and leads her to the elevator and waits until they're inside with the door closed and two floors away from Matt’s super ears before he asks.  


“Hey, so?”  


“Hey.” Claire waits patiently. She has no other choice but to wait patiently. The elevator creaks slowly to the lobby.  


“Can you teach me a couple of trade secrets? Can you teach me how to do some of that cool wrapping stuff with the tape. Or like, how to dress a wound?”  


“You want to be a nurse? Take a class.”  


“Not so much the nursing thing as….”  


“The Matt thing?”  


“Exactly! Yeah! That's it. Matt. And his thing.”  


Claire gives him a long look.  


“Try Youtube.”  


“Youtube.”  


Claire slips her bag away from Foggy as the elevator dings.  


“I think it’s a good idea, Foggy. If you can learn to do the little stuff perhaps I can get back to my life.”  


“I mean, I wouldn't trust me that much. But thanks.”  


“Good luck.”  


-  


The trick of it is, the more he doesn't say out loud that this whole thing is weird, the less weird it becomes. It's a Schrodinger’s cat scenario, of sorts. It can be both weird and comfortable, it can be bearable, as long as the box doesn't open.  


Frank’s dog is a gruff looking monster, with big, white teeth and a square head like granite. Her name is Eleanor. She doesn't like Foggy much, but she is patient and playful with Gremlin and she wags her whole body for Frank’s scratches and kisses.  


Eleanor spends the early afternoon wrestling with Gremin in the living room until Frank got tired of four walls and sat on the fire escape ladder. Eleanor had followed him out and plopped down to watch the sunset. Gremlin had fallen asleep under the desk, her warm skin folding over Foggy’s bare feet.  


Now, Foggy looks up from Youtube and asks, “Do you think I should get an endotracheal tube for my med kit?”  


“A what?” Frank is framed in the window, feet perched on the railing and arm tucked behind his head.  


“A tube. It’s for maintaining an airway while you do CPR.”  


“Why would you need to do CPR.”  


“In case you show up and need it, I guess.”  


“If I need CPR, I probably won't be here.”  


“So thats a no on the tube.”  


A twitch of the lips, “I appreciate the thought though.”  


Foggy clicks through another couple articles, “What about an oxygen tank?”  


Frank steps in - Eleanor at his heels - and closes the window. Eleanor crawls under Foggy's feet and Gremlin shifts to make room. Foggy turns to showcase a video on post-op wound care as Frank starts another pot of coffee.  


-  


“You're getting good at this,” says Frank.  


Foggy clips the needle and threads the last loop, “Thanks. Claire’s walking me through it.”  


“What? Right now?”  


Foggy's phone buzzes on the counter.  


Frank twists back to try looking at the knife wound under his arm.  


“It looks great, bud.”  


Frank slips his shirt back on but he doesn't meet Foggy's gaze. He softly touches the hole in his shirt and the crust of drying blood down the side. Foggy abandons cleaning up the medkit and sits down next to him.  


“Something bothering you? Besides stab wound.”  


“It's,” Frank grips his fists, “Nothing.”  


“Are you sure? Because you seem unusually quiet for a wild Tuesday at 2 am.”  


“He got away,” Frank says with such reluctance that it almost sounds like shame.  


“The guy you were trying to kill? You know, you can't blame him for that, right?”  


“I should have been faster.”  


“Alright, I'm not here to inspire murder, or vindicate a death but I’m sure you’ll get him next time.”  


Frank is quiet.  


“Who was the guy?”  


“Child killer. A sociopath. A fucking-” Gremlin lifts her head at Frank's snub-nosed snarl, “piece of garbage.”  


Foggy could say the guy deserves his punishment, but his moral compass sways him strongly. It would be easy to sink into the thick, murky waters of black and white ethics-  


“It would be easy to find common ground in our anger. We may be angry for different reasons, but when I see bad people walk free out of a courtroom I want to know these killers and rapists and thieves are going to face the same pain they put their victims through. But-”  


“But you don't have what it takes.”  


“Or maybe, I see the world differently.”  


“You're a fool. Like Red. You think these people deserve the chance to try again. You think they'll learn from their mistakes. You think this lowlife, child killing-”  


“You got me all wrong. I don't think he'll learn his lesson or change his tune. I'm just… genuinely terrified of what the world will become if the consequence for everything is death.”  


Frank leans back. He has not relaxed his shoulders, his stiff back, his clenched fists - but, his jaw does not flex and his teeth do not crack.  


“Death isn't so bad,” he says.  


“Can't argue with that logic,” Foggy hands him a beer and clicks his own against it. “Cheers.”  


-  


Matt has many talents, some creepier than others. Mind reading and foretelling the future remain just out of his reach.  


“What’s wrong?” he asks.  


Maybe he can just smell a change in Foggy, or feel in the ozone that Foggy is sitting differently.  


“Just got a lot on my mind.”  


“You want to talk about?”  


“Not even a little, buddy.”  


“You know I love you, right? No matter what? And that you can talk to me about anything?”  


“Really? I can? Can I talk to you about what I should get my mom for her birthday?”  


“That's not what's bothering you.”  


“It honestly, truly is. You know how hard she is to shop for.”  


“Really, Foggy.”  


“And Aunt Sue keeps one-upping me every year. You know how much I hate competition.”  


“Is it something work related? You don’t want me to worry?”  


Is it long nights with deep wounds, blood and youtube and learning on the go? Is it pinching skin together to start the stitch, or the thickness of Frank’s eyelashes when he looks up and there isn't any pain in his eyes? Is it the fire escape and the frame of the window sill that captures in a square Foggy's oddest problem?  


“It's always work related with this family. It's hardly a vacation going all the way to Hallmark to pick out a card.”  


Matt goes back to his papers, defeated. He purses his lips, then softly reminds Foggy, “I'm here if you need me.”  


“I know,” Foggy honestly feels a little better.  


-  


Crooked-nosed Frank - bloody fists and red-shot eyes and square shoulders Frank - sits on Foggy’s fire escape and he laughs. With his mouth open, his teeth flashing, his breaths low in his chest and honest - he laughs at Foggy’s bad joke. Foggy smiles back, but Frank doesn't see it.  
Foggy has more beer in the fridge. Empty bottles clank together in his hands, but he is joyfully buzzed and Frank hasn't mentioned a thirst and Foggy wouldn’t dare break the moment by crawling back inside.  


“I had another dog, God, it must be over a decade ago by now. She was beautiful. She was a farmer's dog for years, she had lived a life chasing chickens and herding cattle, but her hips weren't what that farmer needed, and the farmer took her to the city to put her down. I ran into him in the parking lot and this dog, this little, graying herder, with tiny bones and a little black nose, she had me smitten with one look.  


“I tried to buy her off the farmer, but the old man just won't budge. He’s on this whole “if I can't have her” mentality and I’m bargaining with three or four months pay just so I can spend her last year spoiling her rotten. As the man loses his patience - starts breaking my heart, starts pulling her away - this pick-up truck screeches into the parking lot and jumps the curb. A woman gets out, much younger than the man, and I know by the ferocity in her eyes and the fear in his that this is his daughter. She blows up in his face, screaming about her dog and how she won’t stand by when her dog still has another good year or so in her.  


“She is snapping the leash out of his hands when she first looks at me, and I can see when it connects in her head that I had been stalling him. All she says is that, if I had let him go in there she would have held me accountable. As an accomplice.”  


Foggy laughs, not so much at the absurdity of the woman’s case, but at the enamored look Frank has for the sunrise (for his memory).  


“I married her the next summer.”  


Foggy’s veins flood with ice.  


“And that dog, her name was Baby Doll, was our flower girl”  


“I'm sorry, Frank.”  


The sunset is red-orange and blue. It stretches lazy, winter morning fingers over the city.  


“I have a case in,” Foggy glances at his watch, “Ninety minutes, and I’m still a little tipsy.”  


Frank blinks ten years away in slow and heavy seconds.  


“I got somewhere to be,” Frank says.  


“Just stay safe. I’m tired of scrubbing blood off the couch.”  


Frank is gone when Foggy looks out the window next. The sky is robin’s egg blue, his coffee is fresh-hot, and Foggy feels a roll in his stomach, and he knows why it’s there.


End file.
